Games so complex that it
ends up contorted,
twisted, torn and distorted,
so that it is unrecognizable
as Love.
It becomes
Dishonesty.
Anger.
Grief.
Even hate.
Love plays games.
Games that even confuse
Love itself.
It wears so many disguises,
takes so many different forms,
that it loses its own identity.
And is not Love
any more.
Love then cries.
Mourning the loss of it’s very being.
In it’s unbridled anguish,
Love goes on the rampage.
Tearing apart
the very heart
of itself.
And you.
But, in desperate times,
it re-emerges,
from behind it’s maimed mask.
And reveals it is still
Love in its entirety.
It is Love, just the same.
It is just Love, playing a twisted game.
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